


The Bitter Root

by VespidaeQueen



Series: The Gravity Well [7]
Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Depression, F/M, Identity, Post-Dissent, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-17
Updated: 2014-11-17
Packaged: 2018-02-25 17:16:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 20,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2629898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VespidaeQueen/pseuds/VespidaeQueen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It is hard to understand what they are becoming; they are not what they once were, and the possibilities that unfold before them are frightening.</p><p><i>Once, Justice had watched the world through the eyes of a dead man and he had seen such wonders. Aura had touched his face and looked at him with such sorrow, and he had sworn to avenge the death of her husband. </i>She loved this man a great deal, and he loved her. I am envious of that love,<i> he had told the Commander of the Grey, and nothing has changed since then. This world, full of such beauty, and he wishes for more.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A story in two parts, spanning from _Dissent_ through the Act 2 romance between Hawke and Anders. Ties into [The Heart, Dreaming](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2262684).
> 
> Part two will be posted soon.

9:34 Dragon, midwinter

 

In the empty hours after their return from the Gallows, Justice panics. He twists and writhes within Anders’ mind, and between the two of them, the panic and terror of losing themselves grows until it becomes too much.

The decision to flee Kirkwall is Anders’; it is not in Justice’s nature to flee, and the dissonance between them over this thought spikes all this terrible, tumultuous emotion even higher. He rails at him - _no, we cannot leave, we have a duty_ \- but Anders blocks him out, ignores him, hands shaking as he tries to find the few things among his belongings that he must take.

Books and feathers and string, odds and ends that have no meaning to Justice, but they hold Anders’ attention for the moment. Creased paper with the remains of a red wax seal upon it, a letter that they have reread many times with _Hawke_ embellished in large letters in the signature. Anders’ hands shake even more; he tosses the letter to the side.

“ _Trash_.”

 _Do not do this_ , Justice tries to say, but it is hard. Anders has tried to shut him out, yes, but that is not all of it. That is not all of it, because Justice - who should protect, who should be strong and resolute - is shaken to his core.

He nearly killed that mage.

He would have, he knows this. Something had happened then, in those hate-filled moments after Alrik’s body had fallen. Something had warped his ability to see, Anders’ ability to differentiate between enemy and those he sought to protect. Too much rage, he thinks, too much emotion at facing the man who had stripped Karl’s magic from him, too much hate and anger that was unappeased by death.

Anders’ need for vengeance had been so strong, and it had turned both of them, once again, into something neither of them wished to be.

She had called him _demon_. The mage girl had looked upon them and called him a demon, and while every piece of him rails against it, Justice is not so certain that she was wrong.

That he would even entertain that thought - to think the word _demon_ in conjunction with himself - means that something has gone horribly wrong.

He feels Anders’ guilt and shame, but it was Justice who was in control then, it was Justice who would have killed that girl.

But he didn’t. _They_ didn’t. They didn’t kill her, because -

 _Because of Hawke_.

She had said both their names then. _Anders, Justice_. She had reminded them that there was something more than vengeance that they were fighting for.

She’d spoken and Justice had faltered. He’d listened. He’d _stopped_.

Justice is not certain what that means.

Anders loves her. He trusts her. He has managed to put the memory of her striking him down in the Fade to the back of his mind. He _understands_ what happened there, in a way Justice cannot.

Justice remembers that death, remembers it vividly. Even more, he remembers _why_ they had fought there, what had lead to it. Remembers Hawke’s deal with a demon, even if it had turned out to be nothing more than a false promise.

But he remembers other things, how sometimes she talks as though she acknowledges he is there. How she seems to recognize that what they are is not simply Anders, but Anders _and_ Justice, and that there are differences between them.

He wishes -

No.

 _Trash_. Anders’ hands toss another useless object aside, but as he goes to reach for the next, something stops him. Gloved hands on theirs, stilling them, and Justice had not even realized she was there.

He hears the conversation as though from a distance, but he notices these things: the pressure of her fingers against their hands, how she holds them just tightly enough to keep them still and offer support but loose enough that they could break away in an instant.

Here is Hawke, having seen them at their lowest, having seen what they can become, and she holds their hands in her own and speaks to them, and her touch is soft.

No.

She speaks to _Anders_ , because Justice is locked away, pushed back, and it is _Anders’_ hands she holds, not his own. She looks upon their face and it’s not Justice that she sees.

Aura saw a dead man when she looked upon him. Hawke sees a living one. No one sees _him_.

Perhaps he is caught too much in his own thoughts, but he misses what is said in the conversation until he hears his name on Hawke’s lips. Just his name - _Justice_ \- said as a question, but he does not know what. It is enough to capture his attention, to reorient himself to what is going on.

“He is...disoriented. We both are.” It is only as Anders speaks that Justice realizes that Hawke has asked about him. “That girl, we would have - we nearly _killed_ her. There would have been nothing just about her death, but we would have -” His voice breaks and he pulls their hands away from hers. Runs fingers through their hair until almost all has escaped to fall about their face. Justice feels the sick tilt of nausea in their stomach as their thoughts both turn once more to that moment - the girl looking up at them, terrified, convinced that they were a demon, an abomination -

“You’re worried that you’re becoming everything you stand against, don’t you?”

Together, they inhale sharply. Her words mean something different to each, and for Justice they cut. Is there some part of him that worries about what he is becoming, what he has become? That he has become twisted into something that is only a pale imitation of _justice?_

_“Yes.”_

For a moment - just a moment - he bleeds out. Just his voice and the faintest wisp of the Fade, no more than a breath. Hawke looks at him with wide eyes, something pained pulling at the corners of her face.

And then Anders panics and Justice is pushed back once more.

 

*

 

They do not light the lantern.

For days and days, the door to the clinic stays shut. They hide, within the chill damp of Darktown, with their books and their thoughts and the perpetual smell of rot that permeates the place.

Justice knows this about Anders: sometimes, the light goes out from the world, and there is nothing anyone can do to change it. It is like everything has become muted and grey, and every action hangs on him like a weight. It has been like this several times over the years they have been together, and each time Justice has been sat before a deep well of despair and been unable to understand _why_.

This time, he thinks that _maybe_ he does.

There is a dissonance between them now, a fear settled in Anders’ chest, and they both wonder what could go wrong should they try to heal a patient. Their thoughts separate, raw and harsh, until they are a web of fear and anger and grief. There is self-loathing there, too, and Justice is not sure who it comes from.

They are not...happy.

They need purpose.

 _Justice_ needs purpose.

But when he tries to push, to prod, Anders does...nothing. The lantern stays unlit, the clinic empty. No missives are sent to the underground. No work is done on the manifestos.

And Hawke does not come to see them for some time.

They don’t expect her to. They can’t. She has ever been busy, and now that she is counted among Kirkwall’s nobility, she has many new duties and engagements. There is no reason for her to spend time in this place that smells of rot and decay and death, with an apostate who has become everything he feared -

Justice does not know who that thought comes from. He thinks _both_.

Those who live in Darktown know that, though Anders tries, the clinic cannot be open at all times. It is an unspoken rule that if the lantern has not been lit, no one is to bother him. In the years they have lived within, only a few have demanded entrance when the lantern was out, and generally only under the direst of circumstances.

A week after they have locked themselves away in their clinic, on a day where the temperature has dropped so precipitously low that he wakes up to find frost along the damp planks of wood that hold up the clinic, there comes an insistent knocking on the door. Justice can only assume who is there - someone injured, someone in need. He prods at Anders, and when the man’s panic rears up and it becomes apparent he is going to make no move to answer the summons, Justice pushes harder until he finally stands.

The knocking grows louder, and Anders drags his feet. They can’t - they _have_ to -

“ _Anders_ ,” comes a voice from beyond the door, and it is familiar. “If you’re within, _please_ open the door.”

He does.

 

*

 

Lirene’s first thought upon the door opening is that Anders looks like he has not slept in days. He looks tired and worn, weary in a way she has never seen him before.

“Lirene?” There is a question in his voice, and she is not surprised. Lirene does not often come to Darktown, and it is rare for her to see him outside of her Lowtown shop. “What’s wrong?”

His hair is loose and his hand grips the frame of the door far too tightly. The concern in his voice when he sees her sends a little pang through her; he has ever been too concerned about others, to the detriment of himself, and this appears to be no exception.

“I would ask you the same thing,” she says and watches the confusion roll over his features. “May I come in?”

Wordlessly, he holds the door wide enough for her to step inside, then shuts it. There’s evidence of _something_ here - torn papers and scattered belongings in the back of the clinic.

“I heard something worrying, Anders.” She tries to keep her voice from sounding too dire.

“Oh?” There is a tremor in his voice. “Something worrying about - what? Templars? It’s always templars.”

“Not this time. At least, not wholly.” Lirene crosses her arms and regards him carefully. When she had first met him three years ago, she had thought he had the look of someone displaced, someone on the run. Now he looks positively hunted. “Evelina told me that no one has seen you come out of your clinic for days. Normally, I wouldn’t worry, but…” She lets her eyes sweep around the room once more. “Evidently there was cause.”

“Evelina. Evelina?” He tests out the name on his tongue. “The young woman who brought in that boy with the broken wrist?”

“That Evelina,” Lirene agrees, even though she doesn’t know for certain. She has no dealing with the majority of those he cares for, and she only knows Evelina a little. Evelina, however, had apparently known _her_ well enough to find her when those in Darktown began to worry about their healer. “I came to check on you - are _you_ in trouble, Anders? There have been more templars on the streets this past week, and if they’ve been here -”

“No one has been here,” Anders says. “Really, Lirene, I’m quite all right. Just doing a bit of rearranging - nothing to concern yourself with.”

She fixes him with her sternest expression, the one that has sent coterie running from her shop. “On the contrary. I see quite a bit to concern myself with. When I have refugees asking me if I’ve seen the healer at all, worried that maybe the blighted templars have snatched him up, I have cause for concern.”

Anders appears to have nothing to say to that.

When Evelina had appeared in her shop and told her of the worry for the healer that had been growing among the refugees, Lirene had made up her mind on two things. The first was that she needed to see for herself what was going on. The second was what to do if things were as bad as Evelina had suggested.

“I think getting you out of Darktown for a bit would be a good change. You need some relatively clean air without the ever present worry of chokedamp. I have a few rooms above my shop - I want you to come and stay a few days.”

His eyes go wide and for a brief moment he appears speechless.

“I can’t possibly do that,” he says. “I can’t impose on you like that.” It is a very good thing that Lirene had expected that exact response.

“Nonsense. I have the room, and I still owe you for helping at the shop last winter. So you see, you wouldn’t be imposing at all. Now, is there anything you’d like to bring?”

He has such a dazed look on his face; Lirene thinks she might have been able to sweep him out of his clinic without protest. She doesn’t, of course, but the look makes her think she could.

“I...no. No, there’s nothing.”

“Then let’s get you up to Lowtown. I’d prefer not to be out in Darktown any later than I have to.” She turns towards the door of the clinic.

“ _Lirene_.”

There is something different about how he speaks, just enough that she is not quite certain if her ears are tricking her. She has heard this quality to his voice once or twice, a depth to it that is just barely there, like a faint echo.

She glances back at him to see that his face has gone very still.

“ _Thank you,_ ” he says, and there is some gravity to how he says it that she simply cannot place. So she simply smiles at him.

“You’re very welcome, Anders. Now come on, let’s get you out of here.”

 

*

 

Hawke is beginning to realize she has a threshold for political bullshit and that she’s very nearly reached it.

 _Revered Mother Petrice_. Hawke has never disliked someone in the Chantry more than Petrice in her entire life. Templars always excepted, of course. But it has become increasingly clear that Petrice desires nothing more than - what? War with the qunari? Hawke isn’t sure if that’s her goal, but everything she’s doing has done _nothing_ to ease tensions and everything to make them _much_ worse.

She has spent the last week running between the Viscount’s office, the Chantry, and the qunari compound, playing messenger for people of much greater standing who _should_ be able to do something about this. The last time she had been to the Viscount’s office, Bran had given her a look that had made it _very_ obvious that he was sick of seeing her. Which, to be perfectly fair, she was sick of seeing _him_.

It has been a week of political turmoil that she has somehow gotten mixed up in, and the only one of her friends she has managed to see at all is Aveline. Having the Captain of the Guard watching her back lent a little bit of authority to her, well, acting on behalf of the Viscount.

Timing in her life is never ideal, and this week has been no exception. After what had happened beneath the Gallows, the _last_ think Hawke had wanted to do was be swept up in something else. All she really wants at this point - aside from an easy solution to the qunari situation - is a stiff drink and, well. She wants to see Anders.

She _misses_ him, and after what had happened last time they saw each other, she is _worried_.

She worries about Justice, too. The two of them occupy her mind in the spare moments she has to think.

When at last her audience with the Viscount is finished and she is _done_ with all of her obligations for the day, she is grateful to return home and shed her formal coat. She feels a bit like someone has stuff far too much information in between her ears and the pressure at her temples makes her think that if anyone else tries to tell her _anything_ her head will burst.

But it becomes readily apparent to her within minutes of returning home that she cannot be restful until she has made sure that Anders is all right. That Justice is all right.

Ella had asked her what he was when she helped her out of Kirkwall. She had been frightened, and Hawke could not blame her for that. She had told her what she could - that he was not an abomination, not a demon. Just someone who was trying to support the whole world but who…

But who…

Merrill had said something to her, not much later. _I think he is trying so hard to fix everything that he does not see what he has broken_.

Ella is young and sweet and the age Bethany was when she died. Had she died, there would have been no sense of justice there. None at all for a young woman just trying to escape the Gallows.

And for Anders and Justice to lose themselves so much as to nearly strike her down - something has gone wrong in a way Hawke _cannot_ comprehend.

She leaves her boots on and pulls her father’s coat from her wardrobe before taking the cellar stairs two at a time. The Hawke estate runs so deep within Kirkwall, and she is glad to cut out what would otherwise be a long walk to Darktown, especially with the chill of winter everywhere.

What she finds is a locked clinic with a dark lantern hanging above its door.

“He’s not there,” a small voice says, and Hawke spins around to find a young boy on the steps leading away from the clinic.

“What?” Her voice cracks at the end of the word.

“The healer,” the boy says. His hair is flame red and his face is smudged with dirt. “He isn’t there. No one’s seen him for days.”

Hawke’s heart claws its way up her throat. He had been so close to running before, but she hadn’t thought -

“Well, he can’t possibly have gone far, could he?” Her tone is light, but she doesn’t even know what she means. Everything but a pounding anxiety in her chest has been stripped away. “It’s not like he’s _left_ , has he?”

The boy looks at her with a calculating expression. “Evelina says we aren’t supposed to bother him, because he’s very busy. But she’s smart; she might know. Evelina knows everything.”

“I would very much like to know where he is,” Hawke says, and the boy regards her suspiciously before he scurries off. She starts to follow, but he turns the corner and disappears, and Hawke is left standing in the middle of one of the streets of Darktown.

She is not one to give up, and she is just about to go and pull together her friends - surely Varric and Merrill would help her find him, if no one else - when the boy returns, tugging the hand of a woman who looks to be a few years Hawke’s junior.

“That’s the lady who was looking for the healer,” the boy says, pointing to her, and from the look the woman gives her, Hawke feels like she’s right back in Lowtown, being seen as a threat to someone the refugees in the city hold dear.

“Go, run on back home,” Evelina, and the boy with the red hair casts one last look her way before taking off. The woman draws herself up straight and takes several steps forward until she is no more than ten feet from Hawke. “So. You’re looking for the healer.”

“I am,” Hawke says carefully. There is something about this woman that puts her on her guard, but she does her best to remain at ease. “You must be Evelina.”

Evelina crosses her arms over her chest. “And you’re looking for someone we all care a great deal for. So you _best_ have good intentions, or this will end quite badly for you.”

“I _do_ have good intentions. I’m his _friend_ , I just want to - you know how when a friend goes mysteriously missing from their home, _especially_ when they’re a healer, people start to worry. So that’s me, worried and a friend. No bad intentions at all.”

Her usual charm and humor doesn’t appear to be working. Hawke blames the sharp claws of anxiety in her gut.

For a long moment, the encounter hangs at a dangerous edge, the tension between the two of them palpable. And then, suddenly, Evelina seems to recede. To diminish. The threat dissipates as though it had never been.

“I know you,” she says. “You gave me a whole sovereign when the healer stopped to fix up one of my boys. You’re Hawke.”

“Ah, yes. That is me. I am Hawke.” She spreads her hands out to either side. “So, you see, I don’t mean him any harm. But if you have any idea where he might be, I would appreciate knowing.”

 

*

 

Lirene has just closed up her shop for the night when there comes a sharp tapping at her door. She is not particularly in the mood for visitors, especially of the sort who tend to come by in the later hours of the evening, but a quick look through the grating on the front door shows a familiar face.

“I have been all over the city today,” Hawke says in a rush as Lirene opens the door. “I have literally been _all_ over the city, and I just ran all the way up here from Darktown because I was told to talk to _you_. So if you could tell me where Anders is, I’ll be out of your hair in an instant, because I’m _sure_ you’re about to send me on another run across the entire city -”

“There’s no need to be dramatic.” Lirene holds the door open; she is very much unimpressed, but lets Hawke in anyway. “Come in.”

The shop is empty for the night, which is good. In matters like this - especially when the templar patrols have been worse for the past fortnight - secrecy is best. The door is locked securely before Lirene speaks. “There won’t be any running around the rest of the city, Hawke. He’s here.”

“Oh, that is _good_. That is exceptionally good. I was just about to take a boat over to the Gallows, you know, have a nice little sight seeing adventure over there -”

Lirene has had quite enough encounters with Hawke to know her general way of talking _far_ more than is reasonable. “I can appreciate that you are concerned about him, the, ah, _humor_ is not necessary.”

A muscle jumps in Hawke’s jaw as she holds a strained smile.

“Well, that’s a shame. I’m afraid my humor is about the only thing I’m good for these days.”

Lirene allows a long sigh to escape her. “Really, there’s no need for any of this. Come, the shop’s closed, but we can talk in the back room. I also have something that you can pretend is tea, if you’re imaginative.”

“I’m _very_ imaginative,” Hawke says, and follows Lirene out of the main part of the shop.

 

*

 

They hear her before they see her, her bright laughter spilling through the air. At first, it seems an impossibility that she is there - surely they dream of her, surely the sound of her is only the fantasy of the mind - but as Anders makes his way from to the door, opening it to the rest of Lirene’s home, there she is.

Justice does not expect the way that Anders’ heart turns in his chest, the unexpected flood of emotion that he _should_ be used to. A little bit of his sadness is diminished before the brightness of her. Not all - no person can wash that all away.

Justice remembers what they had told her once. They had said she was the one bright light in all of Kirkwall, and right now that rings as true as it had then.

Anders pauses in the doorway, looking at where Hawke and Lirene sit at the rough, well scrubbed kitchen table, heart beating like some small creature trapped within his chest. When Hawke looks up and see him, a brilliant smile breaks out across her face.

Justice knows then that this is it. This is love that coils in Anders’ chest and that softness in Hawke’s eyes is the same. The years of yearning and longing and holding tight to that little possibility of _what could be_ , all returned, even if Anders does not quite realize it himself, even if neither has said it aloud.

Once, Justice had watched the world through the eyes of a dead man and he had seen such wonders. Aura had touched his face and looked at him with such sorrow, and he had sworn to avenge the death of her husband. _She loved this man a great deal, and he loved her. I am envious of that love_ , he had told the Commander of the Grey, and nothing has changed since then. This world, full of such beauty, and he wishes for more.

And here he sits, uncertain more than ever of what separates him from those demons who prey upon mortals, and he _desires_. He _envies_. What does that make him, then? He, who nearly killed a girl who he should have saved? What does it mean, that when Hawke looks at them and only sees Anders, Justice _aches_?

 _It seems to me,_ he remembers the commander saying as they sat on the wall of Vigil’s Keep, looking out over the world beyond, _that a demon would not only want something, but take it. But you’re not trying to take Kristoff and Aura’s love as your own, are you? You see it, you think it beautiful, but you know it is not yours._

No. No, it wasn’t. He had felt Kristoff’s love for Aura, he had seen Aura’s love for Kristoff. He had desired something like what they had for himself, but their love was not his. And now, again, he sees love and it is not his. It _cannot_ be his.

This brilliant, infuriating woman who tricks demons yet does no deal with them, who speaks with conviction and saves every mage she can from the injustice of the world - Anders loves her, and Justice - he -

He _wants_ , but this is not something which is his.

 

*

 

Hawke looks up from the tea she and Lirene are sharing to see Anders standing in the doorway. While not entirely unexpected, the way her heart jolts and jumps and tries to escape from her ribs is altogether unsettling, and she takes a sip of too-hot tea to give herself a moment.

It never fails - no matter how many manners her mother has tried to teach her since they’ve stepped into Hightown society - Hawke will always find some way to spill _something_ all over herself.

She coughs and she chokes and she spills tea all over her hands and the table. Then, with a heavy sigh, she starts to mop it up with the sleeve of her jacket. Lirene bats her arm away.

“Honestly, if you’re going to make a mess in my house, at least clean it up without ruining anything further.” Lirene passes her a towel, and Hawke takes it with a grimace.

“At least I’m only ruining my own clothing.” But she doesn’t protest too much, quickly cleaning up the spilled tea. She casts small glances back at Anders as she does.

“So surprised to see me that you’re spilling things, Hawke?”

She sets the damp towel down on the table and turns to face him. “Oh, you know me,” she says with a too bright smile. “Jumping at every surprising thing. Soon, I’ll have to start putting bells on everyone so no one sneaks up on me.”

For a moment, Anders stays where he is in the doorway; he looks at Hawke and she looks back. His eyes are soft and for a moment she thinks he might smile.

“Anders, why don’t you sit down and have some tea,” Lirene says, neatly ignoring all else - or, rather, acting as though Hawke’s nonsensical chatter is completely unimportant. “I will have to heat some more water, so it will be a moment.”

“That is no problem at all, Lirene.” He crosses the room and settles down onto the worn wooden chair that rests beside Hawke. Being inside - and quite likely asleep until moments ago, from what Lirene had mentioned - he is not wearing his usual coat, and she notes that the cuffs of his well-worn tunic have been mended several times over with a deft hand.

As Lirene busies herself with preparing more hot water, Hawke turns to Anders. “So it turns out you’re a very hard man to find,” she tells him as she leans against the table. “I was, quite literally, running all over Kirkwall to find you. Dreadfully tiring, you know.”

She does not get the hoped for smile. Anders folds his hands together and rests his elbows upon the tabletop. His thumbs press lightly to his bottom lip as he hunches forward; he does not look at her.

“All over Kirkwall?” he says, and there is less humor in his voice than she had hoped for. “That’s quite a lot of running.”

“Not too much when it’s trying to find you,” she tells him, and here he does look at her. The smile on her lips feels entirely too sad. “I was _worried_. When people start saying they haven’t seen you for days, other people might leap to...less than good conclusions. You know. Chokedamp. Carta. Templars.”

“No templars are going to get him while there’s a refugee left in Darktown,” Lirene says as she brings two mugs of tea over. She sets one down before Hawke, the other before Anders. “He’s done too much for us to let him get taken away.”

“Thank you, Lirene,” Anders says as he takes the mug, wrapping both his hands around it. “But I don’t deserve it.”

“Nonsense. The things you’ve done in this city? You’ve made a difference, and that’s saying quite a bit.”

He goes quiet again at that, staring down into his tea, and Hawke feels an uneasy, painful twinge of understanding. There is not enough time since what happened beneath the Gallows - perhaps there never will be. She saw his face when he ran, the way his hands shook when she found him later in his clinic. It does not matter that Ella is alive and well - what matters to Anders, to Justice, is that they nearly killed her.

It is almost involuntary, what she does. Reaches out and gently pulls one of his hands from where it is wrapped tightly around the mug of tea, his fingers loosening their grip as she takes his hand in hers. She squeezes once, lightly, and Anders responds in kind. But when it seems like she might almost let him go, his hand tightens around hers and so she lets their hands rest their on the table, fingers entwined.

They drink tea in relative silence until a knocking at the front of the shop draws Lirene away. She returns a few minutes later with a scowl on her face.

“Apparently this town can’t go five minutes without an emergency. Where’s my blighted coat -” Lirene lets out a long suffering sigh as she locates it, pulling it on. “I’ll be out.”

Hawke makes to rise from her chair. “Do you need help? Because I’m _always_ happy to help, if there’s anything I can do.”

“That’s very sweet, but no.” Lirene wraps a scarf around her neck. “I’m perfectly able to handle this without resorting to your brand of help. You’re welcome to stay here as long as you like. Anders, lock the door when she leaves if you will?”

“Of course,” Anders says, and with that Lirene is off.

For a moment, Hawke stands there, just a little stunned.

“What did she mean, _my_ brand of help? I’m _very_ helpful.” She crosses her arms over her chest and sits back down with a _thump_.

“You’re brand of help _does_ tends to have a higher body count than Lirene would prefer,” Anders says. Hawke gives a little annoyed snort and glares at him. “What?”

“You weren’t supposed to answer that _quite_ so truthfully,” she tells him. She reaches out for the half empty mug of tea, rolling it slowly around along its bottom edge. “I hope it isn’t anything _too_ bad. I imagine they’d be calling for someone other than Lirene if the foundry had caught fire again. Or if the Hanged Man had caught fire. Or if -”

“You seem very fixated on something catching fire.”

“Oh, _well_. I lived here for almost two years.” She brings the mug up almost to her mouth. “A _lot_ of things caught fire.”

The tea is lukewarm when she tastes it. Part of her wishes she could heat it up, but she imagines that it would only taste of failure if she tried - and, inevitably, failed - to summon up a bit of magical flame.

“So, uh _,_ ” she begins, after setting the cup down once more. “I’m very glad I found you here. That you’re _here_. Instead of elsewhere.”

Anders is carefully not looking at her. “My clinic _does_ get very cold in the winter. And damp.”

“It does, but that’s not what I mean.” If Anders is carefully not looking at her, then Hawke is _very_ carefully not looking at _him_. “I mean, I...I thought you left. Kirkwall, that is. You weren’t at the clinic and no one had seen you and - I thought you changed your mind. And left.”

A moment goes by, and he is silent. Hawke glances at him from the corner of her eye; he is frowning, the lines more prominent on his face then she remembers them.

“I almost did,” he finally says, and that terribly swooping sensation in her abdomen comes back, that feeling like her stomach has bottomed out. “But instead I tried to write a letter to the Grand Cleric. And by tried, I mean I have about three versions _here_.” He taps a finger against the side of his head. “But not a single word actually written. And then I thought, why write a letter? I could just talk to her in person. But when I tried to actually leave the clinic -” He shakes his head and shrugs. “I just couldn’t.”

“What were you thinking of writing? What would have been in the letter?”

At first, it seems like he is struggling for words. Grasping for those that he might have put to paper.

“Well, there would have been a somewhat lengthy introductory paragraph,” he says. His fingers drum slightly on the side of his mug as he speaks, almost nervously. “But...the bulk of it would have been something like ‘in an ideal situation, the laws of the Chantry are put in place to protect people, both those born with magic and those without. But if someone who holds beliefs like those held by Ser Alrik is allowed to retain their power, to use it to coerce and abuse mages, then something has gone terribly wrong. If someone like Alrik is able to bring a proposal such as making all mages Tranquil before those such as the Knight Commander, only to still be allowed to stay in a position of power where he can use Tranquility as an enforceable threat, then it is obvious that something _must_ change.”

“See, that sounds great to _me_.”

Anders gives a small, sad smile. “And that’s about the point where I started to get off track and thought too much about abominations,” he tells her, and no matter how lightly he _tries_ to say it, it still cuts because she _knows_ when he says abominations, what he really means is himself.

“That doesn’t negate anything you’ve just said, though.”

“Doesn’t it?” Anders moves his empty mug of tea to the side and leans forward against the table, hands clasped. “Why should anyone take the word of an abomination as -”

Hawke turns in her seat so swiftly that her elbow jams into the table. The mugs are jarred, the lukewarm tea jumps up to the rim of her cup.

“You are _not_ an _abomination_ ,” she says, forcefully as though her words will make him believe it. “You are _not_. And Justice isn’t a _demon_ , and even if you _were_ that doesn’t mean what you just said about the Chantry isn’t true. But you’re not an abomination, and I _hate_ that you even entertain that thought about yourself.”

A low, dry sound falls from Anders’ lips, surprising her. It’s a crack of laughter, and she is struck again by how often she has heard laughter from him that lacks any semblance of humor. He unclasps his hands and covers his face.

“How have you not turned your back on me?” he asks when his laughter dies away. “All you see of me is the ugliest parts.”

Hawke stares at him, and she doesn’t know what to do.

“I’ve seen an awful lot of you,” she says when she can find her voice. “If a mage running a free clinic for refugees is an ugly part, then...I guess you’re terrible. But I shouldn’t have to explain how not-terrible that is. Do you want me to say how awful it was to take a spirit into your soul? Because I don’t think it was awful. I think you helped a friend who was in need, and I think he helped you, and however bad you both think things have become, there _has_ to be a way to make it better. Doesn’t there?”

He does not look up at her yet; he is quiet, his fingers pressing against the bridge of his nose, at the outside corners of his eyes. The breath he draws in raises his thin shoulders, and has he exhales he slums further against the table. Finally, his hands drop.

“I don’t know. I don’t know what to do. You say I’m not an abomination, but some days I feel like I am only a step away. After what I nearly did, I can’t stop thinking about it. I nearly killed that girl, and I’ve twisted Justice into something neither of us wanted.”

Looking at his face hurts. When they first met, the lines around his eyes were barely there. Now, there is something tired and haunted about him, the hollowness of his cheeks and the circles beneath his eyes. He had looked tired even before they went into the tunnels beneath the Gallows together, but now he looks as though he has barely slept.

“You _didn’t_ kill her. Anders, you didn’t kill her.”

“I could have.”

“You _didn’t_.” She catches his hand again, covers his with her own. The tips of her fingers curl around the side of his palm. “ _Maker_ , Anders, you didn’t kill her. You stopped yourself.”

“No,” he says, his hand still beneath hers. “I didn’t. _You_ stopped me, Hawke. It was all you.”

In her chest, her heart turns. The way he says it is desperate, lost in that way that he sometimes sounds.

“That can’t be true. I didn’t do anything.”

There is this smile he gives her sometimes, small and soft, his eyes sad. That smile falls on his lips now, and it makes Hawke’s heart twist.

“Yes,” he tells her quietly. “You did.”

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anders, Hawke, and Justice have a few things they need to work out.

Lirene insists upon his staying, and so Anders spends a week living in the back room of _Ferelden Imports_. Despite the gnawing of duty that he cannot shake - he _should_ reopen the clinic, he _should_ contact the underground - Anders finds that time and distance from everything is, surprisingly, what he needs. It is warm, it is relatively clean, and to simply rest is something he had not realized he needed so much.

If only he didn’t feel so damned guilty about it.

But that is one of the pieces of who he is now. To be selfish is strange, but there is a disconnect between what he _should_ do, what he _needs_ to do, and what he can. Even Justice’s insistence that they do _something_ has grown less, as though he comprehends that Anders _cannot_.

To be selfish...that is something he has not been in some years. Not as he had been before.

Except that is a lie, and both he and Justice know this. If he was not selfish, he would have turned away from Hawke years ago, to spare her from everything they are and everything they could become.

She comes by, even now, until Lirene grows irate and shoos them both out of the shop. They walk around the market, talking about absolutely nothing of consequence in a way that makes Hawke laugh until she snorts, and isn’t _that_ something, that he can still make her laugh?

She ought to have turned and run years ago. But she hasn’t.

She tells him more of the mage girl. _Ella_. That she is safe and beyond the walls of the city. She does not say where she has gone, and Anders does not ask. But a name...a name, and the knowledge that she is safe. That she is _alive_. It does not erase what he and Justice nearly did, and there is nothing that will ever wipe away the guilt of that moment, but to know that she is safe is...something.

There is too much time to think, and being left alone with his thoughts often proves dangerous. It is easy to dwell, easy to hate himself just a little more. Justice’s worry and unease does little to calm him, and in many of the moments when no one else is around, they both find themselves slipping into melancholy.

There is a spark of a thought that comes to him, though. It is at first a frightening one and he shies away from it. But in those long hours where he has nothing to distract himself from his thoughts, he begins to wonder something. He thinks of himself and of Justice, and of how anger draws forth such terrible things between them. He thinks, though, of how they are in those rare moments when they nearly work together.

He wonders what they would be, if they could truly work together as one.

Three weeks after Alrik’s death beneath the Gallows, Anders finally pens a missive to his contacts in the underground, words hidden within a cipher known only to them, and he leaves it at one of their dead drops. It is late, so late, but it is all he can do now.

When he writes the missive, when he finally delivers it, he feels something like approval from Justice. Something like _relief_. For what, he is not entirely certain.

Eventually, he returns to his clinic. The lanterns stay unlit; he does not know when he will light them again.

But here is where another tiny bright spot opens up in his otherwise bleak world - in his absence, a cat has found its way into his clinic. He is not surprised to find an animal there - the windows are wide enough to let things in, and there are enough cracks in the walls - but generally they are rats or seabirds, not _cats_.

He finds it sitting atop the crate that hides his grimoires, glaring at him through one good eye and looking at him as though _he_ has trespassed on the _cat’s_ own home.

Anders is delighted.

The cat is a great big mangey thing, about as well off as everyone else in Darktown. The missing eye is only one of her defining characteristics, along with mottled grey and orange and black fur of differing lengths and a perpetually crooked tail. She is decidedly unfriendly, hissing and spitting, and she’s absolutely shredded a length of bandages she’d gotten hold of.

“Good for you,” Anders tells her as she glares at him. “You show those bandages that you’re in charge.”

She comes and goes as she pleases, in and out through the windows, sometimes disappearing for days. One day, he wakes up to find her nestled right beside him, and that she doesn’t claw him across the face strikes him as a good sign for that day.

Hawke comes by the day, in fact, which improves everything further. She’s outfitted in one of her new coats, a sturdy thing made of oiled leather lined with fur that is more about functionality than fashion.

“So, where are we going today?” he asks her before she has a chance to say anything. “If it’s anywhere with giant spiders, I am decidedly uninterested. However, I might be swayed if you’re going outside the city.”

“The Bone Pit, actually,” Hawke says. “Am I really so predictable?”

“Hawke, the vast majority of the times you come by, you’re here to drag me into one adventure or another.” The look that crosses her face at that makes him chuckle. “I don’t mind, sweetheart. If I did, well…” He shrugs. “So, tell me why we’re going to the Bone Pit _this_ time.”

“There was an accident,” Hawke says as he goes to grab his staff, but as he hears her words he freezes. A wave of worry wells up from Justice at his response. Hawke must have noticed as well, because her next words come quickly. “Don’t worry, the workers are fine and have already been cared for. But I’ve got to get out there and check on everything since it’s apparently that _Hubert_ isn’t about to do anything about this. We’ve been partners for _years_ now, and he still seems to hold the same views about _expendable Ferelden labor_.”

Justice grumbles at that, and Anders agrees. They have little doubt that things would be far worse at the Bone Pit if Hawke hadn’t gotten involved.

But then, so many thing would be far worse if it wasn’t for Hawke.

He follows her out of the clinic, and it isn’t until they are heading towards the city limits that he realizes that it’s just the two of them. It’s not a _worry_ , exactly - there are few threats too serious for them, barring those posed by templars. But generally these trips involve at least one other person, and so for it just to be them…

It doesn’t mean anything, he’s _certain_. But that doesn’t mean his heart doesn’t flip almost pleasantly as the realization dawns on him.

Something cuts through him, then, something sharp and bitter. He blinks as he tries to comprehend it, and when he does he feels...cold.

Disapproval, or something like it. Sharp, bitter, and coming from Justice.

For some time after their trip to the Fade, Justice had been uneasy around Hawke. Anders knew this. But it had faded over time, especially after the understanding of what Hawke had truly done there. They both know, he and Justice, that it would have gone no differently had Hawke informed him of what she was doing - helping a demon, even in trickery, is not something he can do. But understanding how she had done it so as to safely bring Feynriel through his dreams - Justice’s anger had tempered, and Anders had thought it all but _gone_. He had almost thought, at times, that the spirit felt some sort of affection for Hawke. Justice had certainly seemed content enough when she was around.

Now, though, he feels disapproval, splintered and jagged along the edges of his mind.

His heart sinks, bottoms out and plummets. It is a sickening feeling, this realization, because Justice’s opinion - Justice’s opinion of this is -

_Important._

“Anders?” Hawke asks, concern in the way her eyebrows are drawn up, in the way her head tilts slightly to the side. “Everything all right there? You got a little -” She waves her hand in a way that seems to indicate some unspecified expression.

“I am _fine_ ,” he declared, with a forced smile and more cheer than he feels. “Why, being outside in the fresh air? Taking a day trip to the Bone Pit? It has all the makings of a splendid day, my dear. Nothing could be better!”

Hawke wrinkles up her nose. “You’re overdoing it on the enthusiasm, you know.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.” She knocks her shoulder against his arm. “No one’s going to believe you if you say going to the _Bone Pit_ is a good day.”

Anders gives a short bark of laughter and sees Hawke’s face light up with a smile. Maker, but his heart aches when she smiles. Any smile, every smile. But along with that ache there is something terribly sad and bitter that comes from Justice, and he cannot understand any of it.

They are, miraculously, not beset by raiders or coterie or any other type of brigand on their trip to the Bone Pit. In fact, it is an altogether unremarkable trip there, Unremarkable, but very cold, the damp winter chill cutting through his coat and the layers of clothing he has on beneath.

Anders has never liked Kirkwall winters. He never liked Ferelden winters much, either, but after one experience stuck outside in the snow, he’d timed all his escapes to less hostile parts of the year. But Ferelden winters, for all the snow they had, were a dry cold compared to Kirkwall, and here feels cold down to his bones through most of the winter months.

They make decent time to the mines, getting their before noon. There’s some commotion as they arrive; a number of workers are gathered, several crouched around some sort of equipment. As Hawke and Anders round the corner, one of them looks up, raising a hand in greeting.

“Serah Hawke!” one of them calls, rising up to his feet. Hawke quickens her pace until even Anders’ much longer legs don’t keep him beside her.

“Jansen!” He can’t see her face from where he stands behind her, but he can hear the smile in her voice. “Good to see you’re all right.”

“Doing about as well as can be expected.” Jansen scrubs a filthy hand through his hair; he’s fairly covered in soot and grit. “Some of the boys didn’t think you’d come out here, but I told them you’re a right bit better than Hubert, and if there’s a problem, you’d see to it in person.”

“That’s me, always concerned. So.” Hawke sets the end of her staff solidly on the ground and surveys the area. “What’s going on? I know you had a few injuries, but I wasn’t clear on the details.”

“It’s, uh.” Jansen’s eyes slide to the side. “We were opening up a new tunnel, you see, and a few of the boys ran into a spider’s nest.”

“Spiders? Oh, that’s just _great_.” The look Anders levels at both Jansen and Hawke is equal parts annoyed and anger. “I told you I wasn’t doing spiders today.”

Hawke turns, one eyebrow raised, mouth scrunched up to the side. “Well,” she says, leaning onto her staff and regarding him very seriously. “It’s a good thing I only brought you along for company on the walk and to look pretty. You can stay up here, enjoy the fresh air and the nice scenery. Jansen, where’s the spider tunnel? I’ll clear those things out for you.”

Jansen - who has given a bit of a snigger at _look pretty_ \- sobers instantly. “Right over here, boss.” He leads Hawke away towards one of the mine entrances.

Anders does _not_ want to fight spiders today. He is entirely sick of spiders and spider-like creatures that attempt to gnaw on him. He has played the chew toy for large insects too many times, and when he said he wasn’t interested if there were giant spiders, he _meant_ it.

Except that here are two things that he cannot ignore - refugees trying to scrape by at the only job they can get, and Hawke - and so Anders follows along behind her as she and Jansen discuss the current conditions at the mine.

Despite the possibility of spiders, he is glad to enter the mines because, as it turns out, they are marginally warmer than being outside. Not warm enough that his toes will thaw any time soon, but at least the tip of his nose might stop aching.

“So I guess you _aren’t_ staying outside?” Hawke asks him after Jansen has pointed them down the correct tunnel and then returned to a spider-free area.

“I’ve heard that close encountered with giant spiders do _wonders_ for your constitution.”

“Hmmm.” Hawke looks speculative. “I suppose that explains my youthful good looks. I _do_ spend a good amount of time encountering giant spiders.”

“A good deduction, except that you _are_ young,” he points out.

“I’m twenty-seven.”

“You’re not exactly disproving my point.” For him, being twenty-seven feels like a lifetime ago, and, in many ways, it was. Hawke rolls her eyes at him before striding forward.

“Well? Come on. We can’t spend the _whole_ day loitering in the mine entrance.”

“I don’t know, it _is_ a nice entrance.” But he follows behind her all the same.

The tunnel twists down, the footing rough. He can quickly see where the scaffolding has been abandoned, and it is not long before the first sounds of insectoid scuttling meet his ears.

Here is the thing about Hawke, when she fights: her magic spills out around her like a wave, catching everything in it’s path. There is a raw edge to her magic, something he has come to attribute to hedge mages - she lacks the finesse of being trained in a Circle, but her magic is strong, her magic is sharp, and she twists and writes it as neatly as Isabela cuts with her knives.

She steps between the spiders as they crawl from the dark places of the tunnel; her feet root her and when she casts Anders feels it in his bones. The air thickens and pulls at everything - for a moment, all is weightless and still. A moment later, all is pulled to the ground.

Anders is glad that she keeps that spell reserved only for enemies.

Giant spiders, however, do not fall easily, even to spells that pull at the very gravity of reality. They scuttle and they hiss and they direct their attention of the mage who is all too often in the thick of battle.

As Hawke fights in the center of the spiders who have decided to attack her, bladed staff striking as often as her magic, Anders draws upon his own to tear at the creatures. For him, magic is refined, elegant, spun into ice or light or electricity so similar to that which Hawke wields.

He is not particularly fond of fighting spiders. They are, quite often, found in small, dark caves, and their scuttling reminds him too strongly of the horrific Children he faced in Amaranthine. If he never had to face a large, many legged creature again, he would be quite happy.

At the very least, he has grown quite good at killing giant spiders.

They make their way deeper into the mining tunnel, eliminating the spiders they come across. Most are relatively small for giant spiders, comparable in size to Hawke’s mabari. This, however, is not as comforting as it should have been - Anders has the unsettling suspicion that these are very likely baby spiders, and as the tunnel seems to have become a nesting site, he thinks it very likely that they will run into the mother.

“ _Well_ ,” Hawke says as one of the smallest of the spiders is squished beneath the end of her staff. “This is quite bracing, isn’t it? Nothing like cleaning out a spider lair to get the blood flowing!”

“You seem entirely too enthusiastic about this,” Anders says as he picks a bit of cobweb from his hair. “I do remember saying _specifically_ that I wasn’t not doing anything spider-related today.”

“Waiting outside was always an option.”

“And let you go into spider-infested depths by yourself? What sort of gentleman would I be if I didn’t come along to offer my aid?”

“In my experience,” Hawke says as she pulls her staff from the carapace of the spider, shaking it slightly to dislodge bits of gut, “most people claiming to be gentlemen will talk big until they’re actually facing down a spider, and then you’re out of luck if you thought they were going to protect you. Not that I generally need protecting, and when I _was_ small enough that one of these things was a legitimate threat when not swarming, I had a rather non-gentleman-ly apostate father to squish them for me. My mother also has an excellent spider-venom antidote she can whip up at a moment’s notice.”

“Sounds useful.”

“Oh, it was.” Her mouth curls into a wistful smile. “We used to have a farm, you see, and one year this spider decided to nest in our barn. You should have _seen_ Bethany and Carver scream - you’d have thought there were _dragons_ in there. Then father came out and iced the whole lot of them, and mother patched everyone up. I think they went in there because it was warm, to be honest, which probably explains why the mine is having such a spider problem right now. These tunnels are quite a lot warmer than it is outside.”

It is always something amazing, to hear Hawke speak of her family. Anders can barely fathom it - a father and sister who were also mages, an entire family all focused on keeping those with magic safe. No one to turn their loved one over to templars, no one all right with seeing their children dragged off to be locked up for the rest of their lives.

For all that he has heard of Hawke’s troubles with her mother, and for all that he has not met Malcolm, he thinks them both remarkable people.

In so many ways, Hawke has been far luckier than most mages.

The mining tunnel widens out as they go deeper in, and that’s when Hawke stops short. Anders nearly walks into her; he steadies himself with a hand to her shoulder.

“Oh, _Andraste’s knickerweasels_ ,” he says when he sees what’s stopped her. “I really hate running into these things.”

This is the other thing about spiders’ nests: there is always, _always_ an extremely large spider lurking _somewhere_. A spider large enough that calling it a _queen spider_ would probably not be inaccurate.

They _probably_ should have brought someone else along with them.

It is not _so_ difficult to fight a spider like this, as long as it keeps a good distance away. If Hawke and Anders had time to find some sort of rock outcropping to hide beneath and cast spells, or if the tunnel was small enough to impede its movement, things would be _quite_ easy. Except that the tunnel is too wide and Hawke has _never_ been the sort to keep a reasonable distance from a fight.

The spider is also not at all happy to be the focus of a rather devastating electrical attack.

All it takes is one slip up, all it takes is for the spider to get a little too close to Hawke, for Hawke to step just too close to the spider. One lunge that she is not able to move away from, and Hawke falls; the spider bears down on her with snapping mandibles and stabbing feet. Her staff is lost, torn away in the scuffle, and her hands crackle with electricity where they grip the mouthparts of the giant spider, trying to keep it from her throat.

 _No_ , he thinks, and he rains magic upon the creature, but not enough. Never enough, and he needs to be faster, he needs to be better, he needs _something_ -

He remembers that thought, the one that has kept returning to him over and over. How when he and Justice can manage to work together, they are stronger, they can do things that they cannot apart. He thinks of how it is likely Hawke will be fine, how her magic will likely rip the spider apart within seconds, but he also thinks that, perhaps, she won’t be, but either way this is a moment to _try_.

If he never tries, he’ll never know, and maybe this won’t change things for him and Justice, maybe they will continue to destroy each other until there is nothing left of either of them, but maybe, _maybe_ -

Justice thinks _yes_ and Anders thinks _okay_ , and Hawke punches the spider in the face with a fist gloved in magic.

A feeling sits in his chest; it starts beneath his breastbone and it spreads. There is no sense of words, nothing spoken aloud, but he feels it in his bones. There is panic, involuntary and almost blinding, but it is not enough to stop them, and as Hawke kicks her boot up at the underbelly of the spider, trying to gain purchase and free herself, Anders exhales and as he does -

It is a trial, an experiment. He is uncertain, as is Justice, but that feeling that starts in his chest bleeds outward until his skin cracks, until he tastes magic like blood on his tongue. They merge into one another unsteadily, two selves scraping against one another but neither giving up total control. He feels shards of glass beneath his skin, painful and stabbing, and then something shatters. It feels as though the Fade is within him, embedded in his very bones.

And it is still him, but it is also Justice, and it it is both of them at once, overlapped and twined together until there is no distance, no separation. There is magic and there is ash and there is air, and he feels at once both out of place with reality and yet entirely at home. Reality is a dream, but it is clear in a way it has never been; magic bleeds forth and touches everything.

This is like standing before an endless pool of lyrium; there is magic to take and pull and spin, and he writes corruption into the blood of the spider. He lets it eat away as he pulls light from the air; the tunnel illuminates as light and electricity dance. There is no end to what he can draw upon, Justice an undimming flame within his chest.

The spider rears back with a screech; Hawke rolls out from underneath it, and he can see a great gash on the creature’s belly, leaking some viscous fluid onto the rough stone of the mining shaft.

Together, they drive it back, magic feeding upon magic, until it falls, legs curling up beneath it as it dies. Hawke turns to him, triumphant; there is gore streaked across her face.

“ _That_ should take care of things. There’s always one of these, but hopefully this has cleared out the whole nest. And I didn’t even get chewed on _too_ badly!”

“Always something to take pride in when a battle is done,” he says, and his voice sounds strange, yet oddly right. Anders hears himself and he hears Justice, and that feels _right_. Even the initial pain of merging has gone, and he feels complete in some unfathomable way.

Hawke is smiling at him, but she holds her hand oddly; he looks and he is not sure whether it is himself or Justice who inwardly recoils.

“You’re hurt,” he says, still with that strange, dual toned voice. Hawke’s smile grows sheepish.

“Yes, well. I _did_ punch a spider in the face.”

Perhaps it is the elation from what has just occurred - he and Justice, working together for even such a small thing as killing a spider, with no lost time for either of them, no bodies that he does not remember killing, no fear or anger - but Anders reaches out to take her hand with no hesitation. Justice draws back before he touches her; they both instinctively know that for all their magic is stronger together, it is Anders who heals. The world shifts and turns over and rights itself, all in the moment where Justice diminishes within him and when he touches Hawke’s hand. The sense of victory remains all the same, and though part of him still worries if he can trust himself to heal, he cups Hawke hand in his own.

“You probably shouldn’t punch monstrous spiders in the face when you’re not wearing armored gauntlets,” he tells her as he carefully tugs her glove off her hand. He smooths his long fingers down the fine bones of her hand; he feels the muscles jump slightly beneath his touch. “You’ve damaged your hand.”

“I damaged a spider’s _face_ ,” she retorts, but she holds still as he sets her fingers and slowly knits the bones back together. The anxious knot that had begun to build in his stomach when Justice sank back into the recesses of his mind starts to untie itself as he weaves threads of healing magic into her hand.

Anders does not yet want to admit to why he feels so comfortable with her, why it is her that he trusts, why he does not feel as though Vengeance might suddenly break forth when she is around. He knows that, one day, he and Justice will likely do something which will hurt her in the process - though he hopes for something different, he has always known that the change he so wishes to see in the world will not come without a price. But Hawke -

Hawke somehow makes the weight of the world something worth bearing.

He feels a flutter of thought from Justice, the brush of emotion. He does not want to acknowledge it, what Justice insists is true. He wants Hawke, he has since almost the moment he met her, and he remembers even now the electric jolt that had passed through him when she had listened to him and not dismissed him, and instead spoken to him as though she understood, as though she too held beliefs that mirrored his own.

Justice whispers a word and Anders does not want to believe it. Something fragile and beautiful and as easily broken as her hand.

“There, you’re all set.” He lets her go and Hawke pulls her glove back on. “See to it you take better care of yourself in the future. No more punching spiders in the face.”

“I can’t make any promises.” There is her ever present smile gracing her lips as she flexes her fingers. “Though I might invest in some gaudy, overly armored gauntlet. Like a giant dragon claw, I think. Something that will strike fear into the hearts of my enemies.”

“Or make them question your fashion sense.” Anders takes a step away from her, then stoops to pick up his staff from where it lies at his feet.

“I’ll have you know, dragon motifs are _all_ the rage in Orlais this year.” Hawke picks up her own staff, strapping it across her back. “Lets do one last sweep for spiders, and then I think our business here is done.”

It does not take too much longer to determine that they have, in fact, decimated the spider population of that particular mining tunnel. They head back to the surface, where they are met by Jansen and greeted by a particularly cold blast of winter air.

Though none of the miners look too thrilled about having to dispose of spider corpses, they are nonetheless glad to be rid of the menace. It is obvious that Hawke is well liked by the workers, many of who she takes a moment to speak to before they leave, and as such it is edging into the afternoon by the time they set out for Kirkwall.

Cloud cover has moved in, but it is colder than before, and the wind cuts at his nose and ears and cheeks. Finger fingers are warm within wool gloves and the high collared shirt he wears beneath his layers of coats keeps much of him warm, but before long his face is fairly numb. Beside him, Hawke has pulled up the fur lined hood of her coat and looks, if not comfortable, then at least warmer than him.

He doesn’t say anything about it until, mid-conversation about something else entirely unrelated, Hawke gives him a suspicious look.

“Your nose,” she says in a loud, declaring voice, “is bright red. And looks like it’s about to fall of from the cold, which would be a _shame_ , because it is a _fantastic_ nose.”

Anders reaches up to touch the tip of his nose. Though he cannot feel it through his glove, he is relatively certain that it is near frozen. “I’m not sure if that was a compliment or not.”

“It was, but it was also a concerned _why don’t you have a scarf_ comment.”

“Shredded by a stray cat.” He says it so matter-of-fact that Hawke laughs, but it is, in fact, the truth.

“I’m not laughing _at_ you, Anders, I’m just…. _here_.” She carefully unwinds the decorative scarf she has wound around her hips and passes it to him. “This might keep your face from freezing off.”

Anders takes it gingerly. It’s a vibrant scarlet woven with black threads, elaborate designs spiraling across the damask. “It has spider guts on it.”

Hawke holds out her hand. “If spider guts offend your sensibilities, I can always take it back.”

“I didn’t say it wasn’t appreciated. It may surprise you to learn, but I’ve had _much_ worse things than spider guts near my face. Besides, it’s only on the edge. I think I can deal with it.” He wraps the scarf around his neck, making sure the dirty edge is draped around the back of his neck. “Most of it appears to be _quite_ clean.”

Hawke reaches out and pulls at the front of the scarf, tugging it up to cover his nose. “ _There._ Perfect. Unless it smells too much of spider?”

“It smells _fine_. Thank you.” He feels warm, and not entirely from the scarf. Hawke smiles at him, and though she can’t see it, he smiles back.

Justice whispers to him again, and even though Anders knows what he says it true, he doesn’t know how to say to say it aloud.

As they continue on their way back to Kirkwall, Anders falls deep into thought. It has been three years since he met Hawke. It has been three years of wanting while holding himself a step back, three years of moments and gazes and longing. He remembers months ago, at the Hanged Man and after - how she looked, how she look at _him_ , her words then. There is this small spark of hope in him, this idea that she _does_ care for him, that she too wants more -

It has been three years, and the reasons why being with her would bad a terrible idea seem diminished to what they once were. He wants, _oh_ , he wants - to be with her, to see her happy, to have one small portion of happiness for himself.

 _Maker_ , but he thinks he could be happy with her, even if only for a time.

It is such a selfish thought. Such a terribly selfish thought. There is disapproval that arises at that thought, Justice making himself known. There are so many things that should occupy their time, and Hawke is a distraction from that.

But Hawke makes him smile. She makes him laugh. She makes him feel like he can continue, even when things are at their worst. If it hadn’t been for her, he would have left, he would have given up, what happened beneath the Gallows would have turned to an indelible scar upon his soul.

Anders wants to be just a little selfish, just one more time.

They return to his cold, damp clinic. All the fires he had lit that morning are out, leaving it as cold within as without, and the chill wind from over the water makes every breath of air bite. It is singularly unpleasant, but there’s nothing he can do about it.

“I might try boarding up the windows,” he tells Hawke when he notices the look he’s giving the place. “I’ll have to stack up a few boxes, though. I’m a little _too_ short to reach them.”

“This whole thing is going to fall to pieces one of these days,” she tells him. He can’t really disagree with her on that.

There are new scratch marks on the bottom of the salvaged table in the corner; the stray cat has been back and apparently making the clinic even more her home than before. The saucer of milk he’d set out that morning is empty; he sets his staff down against a stack of crates and rummages through one for a bottle of milk. It’s cold enough that nothing spoils, and in any case he has ice magic to keep his milk from turning sour.

“What _are_ you doing?” Hawke asks him as he stoops by the saucer.

“Putting out milk.” He holds up the bottle, shaking it slightly in her direction to show her, then returns to the task at hand. “There’s this stray that’s been coming around, great mangey thing. She’s put a stop to the rat problem I’ve been having.” He stoppers the milk bottle and stands. “I miss having a cat around.”

“What’s this one named?” Hawke asks him as she watches him put away the milk. “Serah Fluffykins?”

“Don’t make fun of my cat naming conventions.” He smiles at her. “I’ve taken to calling her Her Ladyship, Slayer of Rats.”

“That’s...grand.” She’s biting back a laugh, he can tell.

“I’m fairly certain she’d disembowel me if I thought of her as _my_ cat anyway.Or actually called her that.”

Hawke does laugh at that. “She sounds like one terrifying cat. Hopefully I’ll see her, one of these days. I suppose I’ll just have to come by more often.”

“I’d like that.” And he would. He really would, though the veritable sewer he lives in is no place for Hawke. She’s standing right there, beautiful and vibrant, and he -

He is so selfish.

“Hawke,” he begins, and he reaches up to unwind her scarf from around his neck. “I should give this back to you.” As he starts to hold it out to her, Hawke sets her hand on his, stopping him.

“Keep it, Anders.”

That smile of hers will tear him apart some day, he is certain. Three years, and it still ties his stomach into knots, makes him long to burying his hands in her hair and pull her close, to just forget how horrible his entire world is.

She is such a bright light to him. Sometimes the singular one.

Three years, and he is so tired of making up reasons why they cannot be.

“Thank you,” he tells her. “Not just for this, but for - for everything. I can’t begin to tell you how important having someone like you making a name for yourself. You’re everything a mage should be.”

“Ah. No, no I’m not,” she says with a laugh, and he can see a dark flush rise on her cheeks. “I’m _really_ not. But I will, of course, accept all compliments. Though I’m not sure why a _scarf_ , of all things, brought this on.”

It’s not the scarf. It’s not any one thing, it’s _everything_.

“Because they’re true,” he says. “Because you’re kind and compassionate, and you -” He stops. Maker, he doesn’t know how to say this, how to _do this_. “Hawke, you’ve seen every terrible thing about me, but you - you’ve never given up on me.”

Hawke lets out a little exasperated breath, shaking her head. For a moment, she touches her hand to her mouth, then lets it fall. “Anders, I care about you. I don’t _want_ to give up on you.”

There is a heartbeat, a breath. Hawke looks at him and for a single moment there is nothing.

And then he kisses her.

 

***

 

Anders kisses her.

It is not unexpected; Justice knows what is about to happen before it does. He feels each leap of Anders’ heart, the pounding of blood in his veins.

Time is so strange here, linear, each moment stretched so long and yet so infinitesimally short at the same time. In the Fade, emotion and thought governs all, but here it is different. In so many ways, it seems only moments ago that a woman walked into their clinic and demanded maps of the Deep Roads. Justice remembers what she said, not her first words, but the most important. _Forcing mages into servitude is not the way to prevent the rise of another Imperium_. They had not expected that, neither he nor Anders anticipating a response such as that to their words.

Three years. It has been nearly three years, and Justice remembers that moment of meeting with such clarity. Time and emotion and memory all run together, wound up in a mortal’s perception of the movement of the world, and Justice remembers all of it as though it happened only a moment ago.

It has been three years. Too long and yet no time at all. There are so many reasons why this should not be - Anders knows, Justice knows - and yet something breaks, something ends. Anders looks at her and the part of him that has been holding him back gives up. All it takes is a moment, a look, _she doesn’t want to give up on him._

Anders kisses her. He discards all the reasons not to and he kisses her.

But if Anders will not remember those reasons, Justice will remember for him. Their cause, what they continue to strive for - the path they set out on years ago has not ended, and Justice knows enough to understand that, someday, what they do will bring harm to Hawke. And it will happen; the plight of mages is so much greater than the heart of one woman. Someday, this will end and they will break her heart.

 

***

 

Hawke spends the rest of the day feeling like the world is off kilter.

It is, all things considered, a _good_ feeling. She will, in the strangest moments, remember the feel of his hands in her hair, the way his mouth pressed so desperately against hers, the catch of his breath and the scratch of his stubble against her skin. She feels light, giddy, her heart in her throat. In many ways, she feels very young again, like she has just shared her very _first_ kiss all over again, holding it a secret in her chest.

“You seem _quite_ pleasant today, Ismat _,”_ her mother says over dinner, and Hawke does not bother to bite back her smile.

“ _Do_ I? I suppose I _do_. Remarkable, isn’t it? I had a _most_ wonderful day.” She cuts another slice from the roast, sawing at it as delicately as she can.

“Should I ask _what?_ ” Leandra has, Hawke knows, come to realize that not _all_ of her daughter’s exploits are things she wants to hear about. For a moment, Hawke considers what she could say.

 _A man I’m in love with kissed me today_ , she could say. _He was wearing my scarf to keep his lovely nose from freezing and he kissed me. Oh, and he is coming over tonight._

No, that would be terrible.

_Do you remember that healer they used to whisper about in Lowtown? Well he’s coming over tonight because we’re maybe possibly seeing each other now. In a serious manner. Maybe. We haven’t discussed the specifics yet._

Nope.

_So, mother. You know you and father? Dashing apostate meets noble woman and sweeps her off her feet? Well we have two generations of that now in the family now, isn’t that great?_

Instead, she takes a bite and swallows before speaking. “I went down to the Bone Pit today. Did you know, those spider traps they were selling in Lowtown were a complete scam?”

Her mother gives her a look which is probably _supposed_ to be disappointed, but instead comes out fondly amused. “Spider traps, dear?”

“ _Very_ ineffective. I should ask for my money back. We cleared them out of the mines, though. Nasty bit of business. I brought you back a few poison glands; I thought you’d like them.”

“That’s very kind of you,” Leandra says. “I’ve been running low and was just about to look into replenishing my supplies. Thank you. Though I’ve never known you to be _so_ happy about killing spiders.”

“Ah.” Hawke finishes chewing. “Well. It _was_ a good day. Nice to get outside of Kirkwall, you know? It’s _far_ too stuffy within the city.”

Hawke has many verbal tactics to serve as diversions. Unfortunately, her mother knows most of them. “Fine, don’t tell me. I’m certain that if it is important, you’ll let me know eventually.”

“I will. When there’s something more to tell.”

It is hard, still, to get through dinner. To get to the evening. Once the sun has set at it’s far-too-early hour, Hawke begins to wonder when exactly _tonight_ meant. It is a vague word, to be certain, and she is full to the brim with anticipation.

Or anxiety. Or worry. Or that bubbling happiness that’s been seeping up all day.

There are similarities between all of those, and Hawke is trying not to overthink things.

Still, the hours creep by, and she begins to think of all the _what ifs_. What if he’s not coming? What if Templars finally caught him at his clinic? What if the dangerous night streets of Kirkwall were a bit _too_ perilous tonight? What if he decided that this was a mistake?

 _What ifs_ are dangerous, and so she tries not to think on them. Instead, she tries to distract herself with a book, tries to keep her mind occupied, until a soft knocking on the front door tells brings her to attention.

She sets her book down on the bench and pads across the foyer. Opening the door brings a rush of cold air, along with a very chilled looking apostate.

“You’re _here_ ,” she says as she lets him inside, shutting the door quickly behind him. “I was starting to think you weren’t coming.”

“I was...delayed,” he says, and she notices that he’s still got her scarf wrapped around his neck. “Justice does not approve of my obsession with you.”

Hawke blinks. It seems an odd thing to say, and, somehow, it cuts. “Oh.”

“He thinks you’re a distraction.” None of this he says seriously, and Hawke is not certain what to make of it. It throws her, adds to the mix of _everything_ she’s been feeling tonight.

“I _can_ be very distracting. But we should -” She indicates heading upstairs. “There are many prying eyes in this house.”

And so he follows her upstairs.

 

***

 

His kiss is soft, lips warm against her. She can feel the scratch of his stubble against her skin, his breath, the bump of his nose against her cheek. The tip of his tongue, and she opens her mouth and pulls his tight to her, one hand fisted in his hair.

Anders makes a noise - rough and needy, a breath caught in his chest - and he shifts above her, pulls her leg flush against his hip. Hawke feels hot all over; she nips at his mouth as she works one hand beneath his jacket, pushing those feathers of his off his shoulders. It does not quite work as planned; the jacket pins his arms back, tangles terribly, and Anders sits back, taking longer than she would like to take it off.

“Are you _trying_ to tie me up, sweetheart?” he says, drawing one arm out of a sleeve. “It’s not _quite_ what I was thinking for tonight, but if it’s what _you_ want -”

Hawke pushes herself up and kisses him; her nose knocks against his, their teeth click. He makes another strangled sound and the jacket falls the bed with a soft thump.

“What I want,” Hawke says, and _Maker_ , her voice sounds so breathy, “is for you to keep kissing me.”

He does, happily, pressing her back against the bed once more. He’s still wearing too much, too many layers of cloth between them, too many buckles. Hawke tries to work the front of his coat open as he kisses her cheek, her jaw, her neck - but her breath stutters and her fingers don’t quite do what she wants, and the blighted _buckles_ are too complicated. She pushes him up, rolls them over until she’s on top of him, her fingers splayed across the front of his coat. She looks down at him, at the flush on his cheeks, the red bruising on his lips, at the way he is look up at her with eyes half lidded. He is _here_ , he is in her bed, there’s no more talking circles around each other, no more warnings, no more waiting and wanting and _hoping_.

But as she looks at him then a little thought crosses her mind. It wanders in and catches hold, it is sudden and stubborn and it does not leave.

It is, all things considered, an _incredibly_ important thought.

In that moment earlier, when Anders had said that Justice considered her a distraction, that Justice _disapproved_ , she had felt something sharp and hot in her chest, a sickening ache that spread up her throat and into her cheeks to dance along the bones there. She had, until that moment, not even entertained the thought that Anders could care for her and Justice might...not.

That worry had been pushed away when he’d kissed her, when he’d as good as told her that he loved her.

The ache comes back now, and it spreads through her chest until it has gripped her heart entirely. It is a rich worry, an anxiety, and in a moment all her thoughts collect to form a conclusion.

There she is, with a man she _loves_ in her bed, beneath her, kissing her and touching her, and Hawke _wants_ so intensely that it nearly blinds her, but this thought cuts through all of that. She stops. She stills. Her breath comes in sharply, and she lifts back her hands just slightly.

Anders notices. He tenses beneath her; the soft look in his eyes changes to something worried.

“What is it?” he asks her, and Hawke’s hands flutter before her before she can still them.

“It’s - just - we _can’t_ ,” she says, and it’s the wrong thing to say. She can see all the emotion die on his face, sees him shut down. But he can’t move with her still on top of him; he turns his head to the side, so he cannot see her.

“Of course we can’t.” There is that bitter note back in his voice, something fragile and sharp. “I should have - I shouldn’t have come.”

“No, that’s not it.” Her heart’s tied itself into a dreadful knot at his expression, at his words. “That’s not it _at all_. I want you here, I want _you_ , it’s just…” She looks away from him this time, and it’s the two of them, not looking at each other.

“It’s just _what?_ ”

“It’s _Justice_.” The words slip out, and then there is a terrible silence in the room. For a moment, neither of them move, then Anders pushes himself up, gently working his way out from under her. Hawke sits back onto the bed, letting him up. “Anders…”

“I thought,” he starts to say, then stops. He swings his legs off the bed, then leans forward over them, as though he can’t quite bring himself to get up. “I didn’t think he was an issue. I thought you were all right with him being part of me.”

“I _am_ ,” Hawke tells him, and she worries that he will leave now, worries that she hasn’t said any of this fast enough, won’t say any of this right. “That’s why we can’t do this.”

Anders looks to her then, his brow creased in confusion. “I don’t understand, Hawke. If you’re all right with Justice -”

“But _he’s_ not all right with me.” There. She’s said it. Her heart is drumming in her chest, far too fast, an anxious patter that makes her feel choked. “You said so yourself; he disapproves of this.”

Anders’ mouth opens slightly; the frown stays in place. “What he thinks doesn’t change what I feel for you.”

Hawke moves forward so she’s right next to him. She takes his hand, runs her thumb over his skin, over the scars and freckles that dot it. “I know. That’s not what I’m worried about. I’m worried about _Justice._ Because it’s not fair to him, us doing this, if he objects.”

She glances up, and she cannot read the look on Anders’ face. He’s staring at her, lips parted slightly. Just...staring.

She drops her eyes back to his hand, at his pale, white skin. She can see the veins beneath it, almost thinks she can see the bones. There are tiny scars on his hands, some white and thin, others the darker color of old burns. She focuses on his hands, because it is easier than looking him in the eye.

“He’s sharing your body,” she tells him. “So if we sleep together and he doesn’t want that…”

Anders’ hand turns in her, he laces their fingers together tightly. “Oh.” It’s just a breath, exhaled softly. Not a question, not anything. Just a breath.

The silence between them is thick and uncomfortable. Hawke is not certain what to say, what to do, not now that she has said her piece. But Anders does not let go of his hand, he does not leave, and that _must_ mean something.

After the silence has grown to large, just a beat past too long, Anders speaks, and when he does there is almost a smile in his voice.

“That’s really not what I expected you to say,” he says. His thumb swipes a slow path over the back of her hand.

“What did you expect?” Hawke is not entirely certain she wants to know, but she asks all the same.

There is a smile on his face now, though he does not meet her eyes. The smile is tinged with sadness, like it so often is; an uncertain smile.

“For three years, I have been waiting for you to run screaming from me,” he says, and some part of her knew this. “I thought you had finally realized…”

“Realized _what?_ ”

“That I am a monst-”

She knows what he’s going to say before he finishes the words. Only one of her hands is free, but she brings it quickly up, she covers his mouth with it. The word is spoken to her palm, his lips move against her skin before they still.

“Do not call yourself that.” The words come out harsh. “Don’t you dare. Don’t you _dare_. You are not, you never will be. I don’t know how you can think that about yourself. You aren’t a monster, and neither is Justice.”

The way he is looking at her now, she cannot bear it. The way his brows draw up and together, surprise and shock and something else. Slowly, ever so slowly, he reaches up, draws her hand away from his mouth.

“You have such astounding faith in me, Hawke. I don’t know if I’ll ever understand why, but it’s enough to know that you do.”

He leans forward then and he kisses her. It is nothing like the kisses from before, none of the unrestrained passion for the first that they shared. It is a soft kiss, a sweet kiss. He holds both her hands in his own and he presses his mouth sweetly to hers. Only for a moment, then he pulls away. Hawke’s eyes close for a moment, then flutter open. She inhales, the air shaking on its way to her lungs.

“There’s so much I want,” Anders says, and the words hit her. She is not certain if she flushes under the weight of his words or his gaze, but there is a raw, tender feeling along her cheekbones and a tightness in her heart. “But you are right. Justice disapproves and -”

He stops. His hands loosen their grip on hers and go slack, and the look on his face is _lost_.

“Oh,” he says again. “ _No_. No, not here, we -”

Hawke leans forward, tips her head so that she can see his eyes. “Anders? What is it?”

He drops her hands completely, withdrawing into himself. Putting space between them. Hawke does not try to close the space that has opened up between them. She stays where she is, seated neatly near the foot of the bed, lets him retreat. “Justice, he - he wants to speak to you, but I can’t - _we_ cannot put you in that sort of danger -” He winces and looks away from her, like he has hurt himself with his own words.

She does not touch him, but she looks at him. There is a tremor in his hands, a fine shiver that runs through them. The lines at the corners of his eyes, at his mouth, they have all deepened. She remembers when he first told her of Justice, of how he was so certain they had become one. But there is some dissonance there, she thinks. They are not the same, even if they overlap in so many ways.

“I don’t mind if he wants to talk to me,” she says, but even that does not bring his gaze back to her. “Do you remember - of course you do, it was a very important moment, after all - that neither of you attacked me? Under the gallows, you could have. Do you think you’re a danger to me, Anders?”

He murmurs something, indistinct. Then repeats it, louder.

“I do not know,” he says, and her heart breaks just a little at how sad he sounds.

If she was a wiser woman, she _would_ step away now. Heed all the words about demons and abominations, all the warnings that she should have listened to years ago. But she knows Anders, she has met Justice in the Fade. No demon, no abomination, no monster - they are none of these things.

“I want to talk to him, Anders, if that is something you are all right with.”

He does look up at that, looks at her with warm brown eyes filled with worry. For a long moment, he looks at her, emotion dashing across his face. And then he stills. She sees him draw in one breath, sees his shoulders rise and his chest expand, and as he exhales everything changes.

The Fade spills out as his skin cracks, it rolls across the space between them. They do not touch, but she feels the magic like the heat from a fire, a burning glow along her knees and legs, all the parts of her that are closest to him. Smoke comes as well; she smells something bitter and sharp.

He opens his eyes, and this is not Anders. This is Justice, and he looks at her through eyes that burn.

“ _I did not think to speak with you this way,_ ” he says, his voice so deep and low, a great voice that fills the room even though the words are spoken quietly. She feels that voice in her bones. “ _Indeed, I had not thought to speak to anyone this way_.”

“Hello, Justice.” It is all she can say; her tongue feels thick in her mouth, and when she speaks she tastes the sharp tang of magic.

“ _Hawke_.” Justice says the word as though it is new, as though it has never been spoken before. “ _That is what Anders calls you. He names you many other things, though he does not speak them aloud._ ”

“Oh?” A flush of feeling runs through her. “Well, Hawke is a good enough name to call me. I don’t have any adequate nicknames - Varric should work on that.”

Justice is looking at her, and she falls silent. Her mouth is dry. To her, Anders face is open - she knows his expressions almost by heart. It is so clear when he is sad or worried or - far more rarely - _happy_. But Justice’s face is still and strong, and she cannot read him.

It is so rare, for Justice to have a moment not locked inside Anders, or not released only by anger and hatred. This is - she should - she needs to say _something_.

“You know, you’re the prettiest Fade spirit I’ve ever had the pleasure of conversing with,” she says, and instantly wants to choke on her words and possibly sink through the bed and disappear. “Not that I’ve met many Fade spirits, mind you, so that makes you special and I -” Again, she falls silent before his gaze.

He is sharp and still. No gentle curve to his brow or softness at the edges of his mouth. There is a strength to the set of his jaw that she does not often see in Anders, and all the planes of his face seem harsher. The way he tips his head up, the straightness of his spine - he is strong and unbowed.

“...you wanted to speak to me,” she says, and now that the initial rush of magic spilling from the Fade has passed, her head feels clear. Clearer, at least; she feels aware of everything, like she had in the lyrium filled depths of the Deep Roads.

“ _I did_.” He turns his head just slightly, the light the spills from his eyes tinging his skin blue. That is the only light to seep from him now, the other hairline cracks having closed. The light from the fire turns the entire right side of his body to red. “ _I would thank you, Hawke, for thinking of me in this._ ”

“Of course.” Maker, she doesn’t know what to say. It’s like she’s in the Fade with him again, tongue tied, uncertain what she could possibly say to him, wanting to talk to him more than anything but with duty and necessity in the way. This time, however, it is just them, nothing else but them. “Really, I’d be very terrible if I didn’t. I mean, you and Anders - you _and_ Anders, you kind of go together, you don’t get one without the other.”

Well. _Tongue-tied_ for Hawke _actually_ means that she can’t shut up.

Justice is looking at her, and she _wishes_ she could read the expression on his face. There is something almost _soft_ , but she isn’t certain, something about how his head is tilted, the way the corners of his mouth have relaxed.

“ _No_ ,” he says. “ _You do not. Anders is a part of me, as I am a part of him. We are the same, but we are also separate. It is...difficult to explain. I know Anders has tried._ ” He rises then, the movement fluid, yet somehow sharp. Hawke remains seated on the bed as he steps towards the fireplace. Though she cannot see his face, no longer see the light that seeps from his eyes, it is still undeniable that it is not Anders who stands before her. The way his spine curves, the way he holds his shoulders - it is _different_.

The same, yet separate. Hawke laces her fingers together in her lap.

“ _Anders cares for you greatly_.” Justice does not look at her as he speaks. “ _You are important to him in a way that I wish to understand. But he is distracted by you.”_

Hawke bites down on her bottom lip, then looks away.

“ _It would be very easy_ ,” Justice says, his voice low, serious, resounding in the small confines of the room, “ _for Anders to make you his entire world. This cannot happen. There is much that is more important than love; there is too much injustice and pain in the world, and for all that love is beautiful, it cannot be all that there is.”_

Hawke’s heart jolts in her chest, then skitters away, pounding and racing far too fast. Her tongue feels thick in her mouth, her head light. “I don’t _want_ to be his entire world,” Hawke tells him. “I don’t want him to make me his entire world. I don’t love him in spite of all he tries to do - I love him for it. Everything he does - and I know I don’t even know a fraction of it - I love him for it. If he were to give up the cause of mages for me, I...no. I would never ask that. _Never_. You can have love and not be possessed by it. There is room for love _and_ duty in this world.”

Justice has turned, is looking at her once more. She cannot read his face. “ _Ah_ ,” is all that he says, a single, simple sound that resounds through the room. “ _This I understand_.”

“Justice,” she says, and he is not still then, not when she says his name. There is a slight start that he gives, a ripple through his muscles, then nothing. “I need you to know that. Even if you, ah, _disapprove of his obsession with me,_ I wouldn’t ask him to give up his cause for me. Your cause. And I - if -” She stumbles over her words again, trying to find the right ones. “You and I. We both do care greatly about the plight of mage, and...we both care for Anders deeply. We are not dissimilar in this. But.” And here she stops again, tried to order all her thoughts, turn them to words that will make some semblance of sense.

“ _But?_ ”

“But,” she repeats, and she looks up at him, does not look away from the burning light of his eyes. “If you disapprove of this, then no matter what _I_ feel, I will step back. This isn’t just about myself and Anders, this is about you as well, and if you disapprove of me -”

 _Maker_ , but she wants to say that until only a few minutes ago, she hadn’t thought that he wouldn’t care for her as well, not if Anders would kiss her, not if things were progressing how they were. She should have realized this, she should have known. She has seen the differences between the two of them, she knows they are not the same.

“ _I do not disapprove of you_ ,” Justice says. She draws in a small breath, and she looks at him with wide eyes. “ _It is not my place to disapprove of this relationship which you and Anders both desire._ ”

“Yes, it is.”

Justice looks at her, light spilling from his eyes. He looks almost _sad_. “ _What you and Anders have is between both of you. What part of a love such as yours is there for a spirit?_ ”

There is something _so strange_ about how he says this, how he words it. Hawke’s brows draw together in confusion, her lips part as she tries to understand. She thinks of how she wanted to speak to him in the Fade, before everything went sour. She thinks of how he looked to her, in that tunnel beneath the Gallows, how her words drew his attention even in the grip of vengeance. She does not know him how she wants to - she knows him through Anders and through anger and through dream, she knows him in bits and pieces, the things that Anders tells her.

“ _Oh_ ,” she breathes. “Oh. Justice, why would you think there is no place for you in this?”

“ _It is a thing of demons, to take and to desire and to possess._ ” There is a mournful edge to his voice, a longing. “ _I am no demon; what you have is yours, it is Anders’.”_

“I don’t understand,” Hawke says, her voice soft. “You speak of things being taken as though they are not freely given.”

For a moment, he does not breathe. He does not move. Every line of him is harsh and sharp, and he stares at her. There are feet separating them, but she feels the magic that pours from him as a flame against her skin.

“Is it so inconceivable,” she says, searching his face for some sign of emotion, anything to tell her what he thinks, “that I could care for both of you?”

There is a moment suspended between them; the air is still. She watches him, he looks to her.

“ _I...see,_ ” he says, and he takes one step forward. “ _Something freely given - yes. I believe I understand. I did not, before._ _This is what I say, then, to all of this._ _Anders will know if there is something I object to_ ,” he says, his words low, deep. “ _But I do not object to you, Hawke. I do not object to this.”_

He takes another step forward and slowly, ever so slowly, he raises his hand. Hawke remains still; there is space between them yet. He traces his fingers, his palm, in the air, as though cupping her cheek; he does not touch her, but there is something important about this motion, something that _she_ does not understand.

For the briefest of moments, she thinks that he will touch her. The air, the space between them feels charged, it burns against her, the raw tang of the Fade. She thinks that he will touch her, and she wonders if the magic that fills him will run like a dream through her, if the veil will roll back, if she will drown within that blue light. He is not of mortal men, and in this moment she is more certain of that than ever.

For a just a moment, he looks into her eyes and she looks into his, and she is dazzled by what she sees there.

And then the moment fractures. The loss of the Fade is sudden and violent; the air feels cold and stale as Justice withdraws and Anders takes his place; for a moment, all the color seems dulled. She is only left with the sparks of magic as a residual, grey spots in her vision that clear quickly.

The magic fades and her sight clears, and where Justice was is now only a man.

 

*

 

It is the strangest sensation, to be pushed to the back of his own mind. Anders is not certain he will ever become accustomed to it. But it is not so glaringly dark as it was when they were in the Fade, though everything comes to him strangely. He does not know how much time passes, or exactly what occurs. Only bits of emotion come to him, colors and light. He knows that Hawke is there, can feel the myriad of emotions that flow through Justice, but what actually occurs is not fully known to him.

It is different from when they work together, on those few occasions that they do. This was Justice taking over - but Justice, not Vengeance. There is no anger here, just Hawke.

It is the touch that draws him back out, or nearly touching her; their proximity brings him, panicking, back to the surface.

The first thing he sees is Hawke. The firelight catches in the dark tumble of her hair against her shoulders, glitters in her eyes. She looks shocked, her lips parted, her brow creased

“What did I do?” The first words out of his mouth, full of worry. He cannot help it; he feels as though he has lost time, and when last Justice came forth, he was...not Justice.

But he does not sense anger, and he finds his hand raised as though to cup her face. There is something familiar about it, something important. A memory, at the edge of his mind - _a woman with hair like the sun, her eyes sad, who looks at him and nearly touches his face_ \- and he knows that it is not his memory.

And beyond that memory, he feels - _content_.

“Nothing,” Hawke says, and she does not move. Neither does he. “We talked. I think - I think I understand.”

 _Understand what?_ But he says nothing. There is a knot of confusion in his mind that has eased, and he knows that something has been done, something has been spoken that had not been before.

There is a feeling, in his chest. His heart - and in it, Justice.

 _Oh_.

He moves his hand just slightly, slips it along Hawke’s cheek and into her hair. In his head, in his heart, Justice is content. He is calm, and that sharp sense of disapproval has softened, the edge gone. There is instead an acknowledgement, emotion, _hope_. Concern, as well, all the concerns that mirror Anders’ own. But a feeling, that this is all right. That they are all right with this, that Hawke is -

_Unexpected and precious and confusing and alive and loved._

And so he kisses her again, then and there, kisses her until he cannot breathe, until they fall back upon the bed. His hands in her hair, the taste of her mouth, and the drumming of her heart beneath her skin.

 

 

***

 

 

Waking is pleasant, the best of ways to wake up. He is still there, curled against her, and to know that he has not stolen away in the middle of the night is heartening.

Still, he leaves early, before the rest of the house has woken. Hawke insists he uses the cellar door if he’s returning to his clinic, and he doesn’t protest overmuch when they look outside to see a thin layer of frost covering everything.

“I still have a key for the door, you know,” she tells him as they come to the door that will let him out into Darktown, her in a house robe and him in his layers of coats.

“Doors _do_ tend to have keys,” he says with a hint of a smile. “Particularly if they’re locked doors.”

“That’s cute.” Hawke digs into the pocket of her robe, drawing forth a heavy key on a leather cord. “Remember this? It’s yours, if you want.”

Anders stares at it for a long moment, then reaches out and takes it. “All right,” he says, curling his fingers around it tightly, then slipping it into the the pouch that hangs at his side. “You’ve won me over with your persuasive ways.”

“ _Good_.” She smiles brightly, feeling light and happy. “I was hoping you’d accept it this time.”

He kisses her before he leaves, long and hard, and truth be told she doesn’t want him to leave. Hawke kisses him back, hands buried in his hair, kisses him until he gasps against her mouth and pulls away.

“Careful,” he tells her. “Too much of that and I’ll never leave.”

“Maybe that’s the point.”

He laughs, and _oh_ he sounds happy.

Still, he leaves, and as he steps out into Darktown, Hawke leans against the frame of the door and watches him.

“Anders,” she tells him, and he turns back to look at him. “You’re welcome here _always_. You _and_ Justice.”

The look that crosses his face - _Maker_ , but for just an instant he seems so happy she could swear he glows. As though Justice has come forth for just a moment. Just a trick of the morning light, she thinks.

She locks the cellar door behind her, content to know that the spare key is in his possession.

It is too early and too cold - he could have stayed. _Should_ have, she thinks, or at least considered it longer than he had.

But he stayed the night, and he _accepted the key_. She almost hadn’t expected it, after the number of times he had said no. But he accepted it and he’s going to come back.

The estate is cold, the rooms too large and open to hold heat easily overnight. Hawke makes her way out of the cellars and to the kitchen, where she spends far too long starting up the fire. A cup of tea is what she would like now, or maybe a whole pot. Of the good tea, imported from the north.

She feels like a morning sandwich might not be a bad call either.

So she puts the kettle on the fire and sets about putting together a breakfast of sorts, inwardly kicking herself for not convincing Anders to stay for at _least_ some food. He could have stayed, and she would have attempted to make something edible for them to eat, and he could have backed her up against the table and kissed her -

She would have liked it if he had stayed.

Her tea is steep in its pot when her mother comes into the kitchen. It is not at all unusual for Leandra to be up early, habit born of years of rising with the sun. Hawke does not notice her at first; she is distracted by thought, sitting at the table watching the tea steep, humming happily to herself.

“Please tell me you’ve made enough tea for two.”

Her mother says as she walks into the kitchen, her heavy house robe pulled tightly around her. Hawke blinks at her, wondering how long her mother has been there. It couldn’t have been long, she decides. Leandra does not _lurk_. She surveys for just long enough to understand the lay of a room, and then she makes herself known.

“Of _course_ ,” Hawke says, and she rises to find another teacup. The tea is just about done; a rich blend from Rivain. Steam rises up as she pours, little wisps that curl into the cool air.

Leandra takes a seat at the table across from her. She has her hair bound back this morning, a thick white plait that falls over her shoulder. Hawke is struck, as she often is, by how much healthier her mother looks, now that they live in Hightown. The last years had been hard for her, ever since Malcolm’s death.

It is good to see her looking well.

“So,” her mother says as she holds her steaming cup of tea on the table before her. “I notice that you seem very happy this morning.”

“Oh,” says Hawke, for once not spilling anything when her mother decides to broach topics. “I suppose I am.”

The look her mother gives her is knowing, but then again, her mother always had a way of knowing when her daughter was, for lack of a better word, _involved_ with someone.

“I trust you had a good night, then,” Leandra says, so nonchalantly that, if Hawke was not in an excellent mood, she would have spluttered.

As it is, she simply smiles and sips at her tea. “I _did_. Please pass the sugar, mother.”

Leandra passes the small pot of sugar over. “I do hope I get to meet this mystery person of yours this time.”

Hawke scoops two spoonfuls of sugar into her tea, stirring lightly. “Well, this is a...very new thing. I’m not sure that we’re quite at the ‘meet the parent’ stage of the relationship yet. Though…” The thought that crosses her mind gives her pause. How many mages could say that they have brought home someone to meet their mother? How many could bring home a _mage_ to meet their mother, with no worry that said mother might turn them over to a templar?

She is so very lucky, in so many ways.

“I think it would be nice, if you were to meet,” she says, and her smile is so bright. “Though you _have_ already met him. Briefly, and not in any official way.”

Leandra’s eyebrows raise as one. “It’s not that Chantry prince with the exceedingly shiny armor, is it? He seems nice enough, but not the sort who I would expect to sneak out before the sun has come up.”

“ _Eh_ ,” says Hawke. “No, not Sebastian.”

Leandra waits expectantly.

Hawke can’t exactly tell her mother the _entirety_ of it. _Yes, mother, I am in love with a fugitive apostate and a spirit of Justice. I know for a fact that one of them is in love with me, and the other hinted at it_ very _strongly. It’s all very complicated and more than a little overly dramatic._

No, that wouldn’t do at all. She is _very_ certain that her mother will be all right with her seeing a mage. She is not at all certain about her mother’s feelings on spirits.

There is just enough faith left in their family to worry that her mother would consider Anders an abomination. And while being a apostate is bad enough, being considered an abomination is a death sentence. Or can be.

“Do you remember when I held that little get together,” she begins, setting her cup on the table, turning it nervously about. “A few months after we finally moved in here. He was the man who turned up late and shed feathers all over the floor.”

“Ah.” For a moment, Leandra’s face goes carefully blank. “He’s the man you took with you on your expedition.”

“...yes. Yes, he is.”

“Hmm.” Leandra presses her lips together tightly, then her expression softens. “Well? What is he like? I only met him briefly, and having to pick up feathers for hours afterwards is about the only impression I have of him.”

“Oh, _um_.” Hawke leans forward, resting her chin in her hands. “He’s very driven. Very smart, even though a lot of people don’t seem to realize it. He has the strongest sense of justice I’ve ever seen, and he’s so very selfless. And he _loves_ cats, he used to have one, this little tabby he named Ser Pounce-a-Lot.”

Her mother is smiling at her. Hawke expects that she has a silly smile of her own.

“He’s, ah. He’s a lot like father, in a lot of ways,” she says, which is not untrue. There are many differences there, of course. Malcolm’s sense of duty was turned inwards, towards his family, and he did not carry the weight of the world on his shoulders. Perhaps the world has crushed him less, or perhaps he had learned to stand despite everything, strong and happy and bright.

But her mother understands what she means first and foremost in saying that.

“Oh, _Ismat_ ,” she says, and she reaches across the table to take her hand. “I shouldn’t be surprised.”

“He’s an apostate,” Hawke admits, and it is good to see no judgement on her mother’s face. “He’s a good man.”

“I’m sure he is,” Leandra says, patting her hand once. Then she sits back and picks up her tea once more. “So. I should I expect an excess of feathers on the floor to be a common occurrence now?”

“ _Ah_ , yes. About that....”

 

***

 

He still does not light the lantern.

For all that has happened, for all that he feels happier than he has in weeks, he does not light the lantern. Thinking of opening the doors of the clinic once more is still uncertain, still something he cannot quite bring himself to do.

But he feels more at peace with himself, with Justice, than he has in some time. Things are not perfect, they are not ideal; he can still feel the dissonance between them, the slight differences where the edges of himself meet Justice.

But.

They feel happy. Both of them. Something has changed, something has been put at ease. The realizations they both have made have turned the world onto its head, and this time they do not feel out of place.

He feels, for the first time in many weeks, like he is all right. He feels as though he can _do_ something.

He sits down at his makeshift desk and pulls forth quill and ink, smoothes parchment flat. Justice sings in his head, content for the moment, and Anders writes.

 

_To Her Grace, Grand Cleric Elthina,_

_I write to bring to your attention a grave matter, concerning the recently deceased Alrik, Templar of the Kirkwall Order. You will find attached documents which shed light upon this Templar’s extreme views upon the Rite of Tranquility and how it should be applied within the Gallows and throughout_ all _Circles._

_While his propositions were rejected by all greater powers, this document reveals something immensely troubling: despite the views held by Alrik and the suspect actions he has taken, he has been allowed to retain all position and status within the Templar Order. Surely your Grace can see why this is of concern. Those with power over others who hold such views will often use it to great detriment. Is that not one of the reason for which mages are watched? With immense power, there is great temptation - this is something true of both those with magic and those with political or physical power over others. Blood magic is not the only means by which to control or coerce - threat of violence, threat of tranquility, both can be equally as damning._

_In an ideal situation, the laws of the Chantry are put in place to protect people, both those born with magic and those without. But if someone who holds beliefs like those held by Ser Alrik is allowed to retain their power, to use it to coerce and abuse mages, then that system which should protect causes harm instead. If someone like Alrik is able to bring a proposal such as making all mages Tranquil before those such as the Knight Commander, only to still be allowed to stay in a position of power where he can use Tranquility as an enforceable threat, then it is obvious that something must change._

_If it is a Templar’s duty to watch mages, whose duty is it to watch the Templars? My proposition is this: perhaps a deeper look into how the Templar Order conducts itself within Kirkwall is in order._

_~A_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there it is. I've been working on this thing since September, and here it is, 20,000-ish words of relationship stuff. Hopefully I managed to do what I was aiming for - which was to include Justice, develop an idea of what he disapproves of that doesn't negate the possibility of him loving Hawke, cover consent within this relationship, and write an arc to deal with the fallout of _Dissent_ on the part of both Justice and Anders. Also, to do a bit with the first time that, in game terms, the Vengeance skill tree would have been used.
> 
> This is also the last thing I'm writing before _Inquisition_ comes out, and I'm very glad that I managed to finish it before launch day. Hopefully you've enjoyed this, and hopefully I didn't do too badly with what I was trying to accomplish with this fic. Thank you for reading!


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